


Incidence and Reflection

by kelleigh (girlfromcarolina)



Series: Incidence and Reflection [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, BAMF Stiles, Blow Jobs, Cameo by Dean Winchester, First Meetings, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Human Stiles, Kissing, M/M, Mechanic Derek, Pool & Billiards, Roadhouse, Scott has his own pack, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek came to the roadhouse looking for information and an uneventful night.  He gets Stiles instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incidence and Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a canon-divergent AU in which Scott was still bitten by a rogue Alpha, and Derek lost his family (as well as built his own pack), but they've never met. Season 1&2 events have still happened, but to Scott and Derek separately. So Derek and Stiles have never met before.
> 
> Thanks to dedougal for the speedy beta!
> 
> This is my first Teen Wolf fic of any kind, and I am _terrified_.
> 
> Questions and/or fic encouragements/ideas can be left at my tumblr: [hurricanekelleigh](http://hurricanekelleigh.tumblr.com/)

There’s something different about the roadhouse tonight. Derek doesn’t need enhanced senses to place what it is.

The bartender, Dean, is scowling when Derek walks in. Which isn’t remarkable, but Dean’s expression is fixed on the billiard tables against the far wall, each rectangle of green baize highlighted under a cone of light, wisps of cigarette smoke floating through the air. All eyes are on the third table where Fagan is prowling around a man Derek’s never seen before. He blinks once and realizes that the stranger is young—barely legal based on a quick catalog of his features. A face made of smooth planes of supple skin dotted with small moles, fluid hips paired with eager feet. There’s an air of general disarray, typical of teenagers, around the stranger, and Derek pegs him as no older than twenty. He ignores the drum-quick pang of nostalgia that comes with remembering the innocence he’d worn when he was that young.

Without taking his eyes off of the cue-wielding tween, Derek asks Dean, “What’s with the jailbait?”

Dean’s scowl doesn’t crack as he pops the cap off a beer and passes it over. Some nameless domestic brand—Derek’s usual order. Dean would be able to sense if Derek was here to get drunk, and in that case he’d be handing over a glass of that _special_ crap his brother distills, sure to knock a wolf off its paws. But mostly he serves strong whiskey and cheap beer; Dean and his brother make more money from passing along information than they do on alcohol. 

“He came in here just before nine,” Dean eventually tells him. “Pulled up in that glued-together Jeep out in the lot.”

Derek had noted it on the way in. Hard to miss it, really, sitting there on the gravel looking like a stiff wind might knock it off its wheels.

“Ordered a Coke and went right over to the tables lookin’ for a game,” Dean’s saying. “Fagan wasn’t the first taker, either. The kid already beat Ambrose and won himself twenty bucks.”

Derek lets his senses take over. Beyond the barley and old leather smells of the roadhouse, beneath Dean’s store-brand aftershave and simmering aggression, Derek’s able to root out the anomalous scent. Across the room, the nimble stranger circles around to the front of the pool table, t-shirt fluttering around his lean middle. That’s when Derek catches it—a saccharine sweetness, slightly artificial but with a hint of sweat and cotton. As if the sugar is a part of him.

Derek licks his lips, forced to back his mind out of a sudden fantasy of scraping that sugared skin with his teeth. Because _what the hell?_

He stumbles away from the bar avoiding Dean’s sharp regard. Leaving a few tables between them as a buffer, Derek drains his beer while he watches the kid play. Fagan is all business, almost snarling as he lines up his next shot, the cue stick warping in his hands when he misses a difficult setup. 

Everyone in the bar knows better than to needle Fagan when he’s in a bad mood—when his wolf comes too close to the surface. But this kid, with a scent already imprinted on Derek’s senses, is waltzing up to take his shot as if he’s playing a casual game with his buddies, a whip of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He glances up just as he’s leaning forward and catches Derek watching.

The cue is poised over the bridge of his fingers, but there’s a pause. Looking away wouldn’t do Derek a lick of good, so he waits for the kid to shoot. His elbow snaps forward, sending the balls colliding with a definitive crack, pocketing two stripes. The kid smirks; he’d never taken his eyes off Derek.

From there, the game deteriorates quickly. For Fagan, anyway. Derek keeps an eye on things (though the pair have drawn a circle of stoic spectators), which isn’t that difficult as the kid tilts his head to make sure Derek’s still observing. Whether or not he’s aware that the motion exaggerates the tendons in his neck is debatable, but what really matters is that Derek’s wolf has taken note and it _wants_. In a bad way.

Watching bar pool isn’t the worst way Derek could be spending his night. He comes to the roadhouse to drink and download the latest news from Dean, who’s more connected to pack politics in Northern California than anyone else Derek knows despite not formally having a pack of his own beyond his younger brother, Sam. The bar is a haven for lone wolves, or those like Derek who need a night away once in a while; he’s pretty sure Boyd and Erica appreciate the privacy, too. Isaac would tag along if Derek asked him to, but he’s trying to encourage his younger beta to find his own interests. He’s worried that if Isaac spends too much time with him, he’ll end up just as moody and bent as his alpha, and Derek knows Isaac’s spirit is brighter than that, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

As the kid fist-pumps the air after a tricky shot, Derek singles out four or five regulars who are itching to take next game. Wolves have their pride, after all. Dean picks up Derek’s empty bottle with a grumble, but drops off a cold replacement a few minutes later. Derek’s thinking about maybe taking his rusty pool skills for a spin later when the sound of splinters—hundreds of them—reaches his ears.

Derek leaps, driven more by the beast within him than the shock of the noise, and immediately sets himself between the two opponents. Keeping the kid at his back and out of danger—protect, _protect_!—he stares down the larger wolf. Fagan’s eyes have gone icy and savage, nearly colorless, but Derek’s flare and burn into the omega’s. 

Instead of losing his mind and booking it out of the bar, the kid pushes up against Derek’s back and flails over his shoulder.

“I called that shot, man,” he argues. Derek’s forced to curl one arm back to rope him in place. “You lost, don’t be a dick!”

Derek rolls his eyes. The _last_ thing he needs is for Fagan to take offense with this guy’s mouth (personally, Derek has no problem with the whippy curve of his lips) and start a brawl. Derek is definitely _not_ in the mood to shift, ruin a perfectly good shirt, or dig rock salt out of his ass after Dean inevitably breaks out his sawed-off shotgun.

Fagan brandishes the shattered halves of his pool cue, either capable of impaling his opponent. “Little fucker’s a shark,” he seethes. “I ain’t paying a cheat!”

The kid huffs, breath passing across Derek’s ear.

“Pay up,” Derek says flatly. “He beat you fair and square.” Which is true; Derek had been watching the entire time. If anything, the kid had been paying more attention to Derek than the game, distracting Derek from his usual routine of drinking and brooding.

Fagan’s jaw clicks as he grinds his teeth. If he falls into his primal side, there may be nothing Derek or anyone else can do to avoid a fight. Behind him, the kid is beginning to show his nerves, but he covers it well.

There’s a beat of silence while Derek squares off against Fagan (over a goddamned teenager—Derek’s life, _seriously_ ). Suddenly he hears the cock of a gun, as clear a warning as it gets.

Beside the bar, Dean’s staring at Fagan down the barrel of a shotgun, his green eyes flashing bright.

“Pay up, before I make a mess of you.”

Derek has yet to witness Dean shifting, but he knows better than to get on the bartender’s bad side. Apparently Fagan understands that, too.

“He’s not worth it,” Fagan spits, cracking his drumstick knuckles in a final act of intimidation. The kid tenses against Derek’s spine as if there’s a snippy remark right on the tip of his tongue, but to Derek’s immense relief, he keeps his lips zipped. Fagan stomps around the table, swipes his leather cut off the stool where he’d tossed it, and leaves, the sparse crowd parting to make way for his hunched shoulders.

Derek sighs, eyeing his beer with longing. He thinks the excitement’s over until the kid wheels around.

Facing Derek, he says, “I could’ve taken him.”

And if bravado meant biceps, Derek might believe him. “Sure, and afterward I could’ve taken you to the emergency room.”

Not that he’d call this guy scrawny; he’s the dictionary definition of lithe, and Derek makes no effort to hide his observation. Subtle isn’t really his style. Hell, Dean’s fond of joking that Derek’s more likely to club potential partners over the head and drag them back to his lair.

Derek doesn’t think his flirting is that bad. And he doesn’t have a lair! If anything, the apartment at the garage is more like a man-cave, or whatever Erica calls it.

“So maybe he was big, but I’ve seen bigger. And dudes much, much uglier, too.” He grins like there’s some joke Derek’s supposed to catch, but it flies by.

The kid’s wearing plain jeans and an artificially faded Skittles t-shirt, the famous slogan sitting atop of a gaudy rainbow that leads straight down to his fly like a treasure trail. Pot of gold, indeed. A cotton shirt lays open across his wide shoulders, a mess of colors in the plaid. It looks like he was dressed by a rambunctious leprechaun.

Derek glares. “You know what you were messing with?”

“Trust me,” the kid says, “I know all about it.” Derek stares—it’s not the answer he’s expecting—and watches him wriggle under the pressure until he adds, just as quietly, “My best friend’s an Alpha. And if you care, since you just did the whole knight-in-shining-armor thing back there, my name’s Stiles.”

The name _Stiles_ doesn’t ring any bells, but there’s only one Alpha in Northern California who’s below the legal drinking age.

“McCall.”

Stiles doesn’t look surprised. “Yeah, Scott. Been my best friend since we were, like, eight.” He frowns, his downturned mouth tugging on something in Derek’s chest. “You don’t have a beef with him, or anything, right? With my luck, I probably just walked into some Hatfield versus McCall shit. Great. I mean Scott, he gets along with everybody, but—hey, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Didn’t give it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and Derek wants to smack himself. Stiles waits, smirk becoming more pronounced the longer Derek refuses to give up his name. The standoff might have continued indefinitely if not for Dean and his phenomenally bad timing.

“Hale! Pick up the damn cue stick before that kid gives himself a splinter. I don’t want to get sued.”

Fagan’s mangled pool cue is lying where the outraged wolf had dropped it. Stiles holds his hands up. “I wasn’t gonna touch it.” He looks between Dean and Derek. “Hale?”

Dean is _not_ getting a tip tonight. “Derek,” he sighs. “Derek Hale.” 

He wonders if the name’s familiar to Stiles. Derek’s been keeping a low profile for the last couple of years, but that wasn’t always the case. The Hale family tree had been more of a forest until the flames raged and left nothing but scorched earth. But if Stiles recognizes the name, he gives no sign.

“Guess I owe you one, Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek waves it off. “I wasn’t the one brandishing a shotgun.”

“True, but if you hadn’t held me back, I might’ve ended up with my face caved in, or a stick shoved through my leg. I kind of, um, overreact sometimes. Usually come out on top, though.” He winks—completely inappropriately—and Derek figures that he needs to get away from this kid as soon as possible.

Which is obviously why he says, “C’mon, I’ll buy you a beer."

It’s Derek’s turn to smirk as Stiles stumbles over his own feet. “Dude, I’m nineteen.”

“Are you telling me this would be your first beer?” Stiles shakes his head. “So shut up about it already,” Derek adds with something approximating a smile. From Stiles’ expression, he doesn’t quite get there, but it’s close enough. He glances over at Dean and signals for two beers. Dean glares back, but after a moment he sets a pair of cold bottles on the bar.

 _Come and fetch_ , Dean mouths silently, and Derek wonders why he even gets along with the bastard.

“I can buy my own,” Stiles says when Derek comes back, as he’s gathering the pile of crumpled bills on the edge of the pool table. “See? Not a bad pay-day.”

Derek hands him a beer. “What’s the money for?”

“I had this great idea for a summer roadtrip,” he tells Derek, removing balls from the corner pockets and rolling them across the table. “It was supposed to be just me and Scott, but then his girlfriend ended up staying in town instead of going abroad, and…” Stiles sighs. “So anyway, yeah, it was just me. Which was okay for a while—I’m pretty good at talking to myself—but it got old. I’m on my way home, but I was low on gas and even lower on cash.”

“And you figured hustling was a good idea?”

“There was no _hustling_ ,” Stiles scoffs, “and no sharking either. There was no reason to—that dude was pretty bad.” He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a long swallow. Derek closes his eyes and drains a third of his beer, dousing his wolf with alcohol. When he opens his eyes, Stiles is watching him. 

“Feel like playing?”

“Now that would be hustling,” Derek says. “I’ve seen you play, and I’m pretty sure you were holding back.”

Stiles shrugs. “It was worth a shot.”

Stiles circles the table, retrieving the balls with one hand while keeping his beer in the other. Constantly moving while Derek leans against the far wall, tracing Stiles’ steps through the hazy bar light. Derek has heard the rumors about Scott McCall’s _pack_ —a mix of humans and werewolves. Most of them are teenagers like Stiles, but they’ve pulled themselves through some crazy shit according to stories told by wolves passing through the roadhouse.

They share the bar’s far corner for well over an hour and Stiles does most, if not all, of the talking. Suits Derek just fine—all he needs to do is nod once in a while, hum when Stiles stops to take a breath. Stiles tells Derek about his dad’s recent commendation from the county, jumping to Scott for a few minutes before reversing back something he wants to tell Derek about his freshman year at college. 

Derek won’t be able to remember most of it later, too busy watching the way Stiles moves around the table, fiddling with the pockets and the balls. It’s endearing—slightly exhausting—the way he expresses himself with his entire body. Eventually they come to the real reason for Stiles’ road-trip. 

“Break-up anxiety?” Derek asks, his eyebrows raised.

“Not so much ‘break-ups’ as failed attempts at dating,” Stiles clarifies.

“All ‘cause of a girl, huh?”

“And a guy. I’m equal opportunity when it comes to misery and rejection.”

The light behind Stiles’ brown eyes has dimmed, unpleasant memories stalking his spirit, and Derek feels driven to reverse it.

“Were you serious about either one?”

Stiles looks over, long fingers curled over the rail. He shrugs. “I guess not, but my lack of success is becoming the rule, not the exception, you know?”

Derek has rules too. Not getting involved with humans is one that’s inscribed deep in his bones, but Stiles is refreshing for his senses. There are other scents on him, but they’re old, faint. Not surprising given that he’s been away from McCall’s pack for almost two weeks. Without _pack_ masking his natural scent, Derek’s able to revel in the tiers of fresh-cut grass, cinnamon-and-sugar, and cotton. There are smells he’s not fond of as well—dejection and bitterness—but those have weakened over the last hour.

As Stiles brushes by Derek to set his empty bottle on the table, their feet tangle together and send Stiles flailing. Derek swoops before the thought to do so is fully formed, prevents Stiles from cracking his knees and elbows on the rough-hewn floor, and brings them into the closest contact they’ve shared all night. Derek’s wolf _howls_ —no doubt every other were in the roadhouse is aware of what he’s feeling—and Stiles glances up through the wide fans of his lashes. There’s a snap in the air like carbonation hitting Derek’s tongue; he knows without a doubt that it’s coming from Stiles, but Derek has never felt anything like it.

Seconds before Derek gives his wolf what it’s so desperately clawing for, there’s an unholy commotion by the bar. Derek twists away from the cacophony of breaking glass and violent cursing, forcing Stiles to push back if he wants to stay on his feet.

“Dammit, Greenberg!” Dean’s gone red in the face as he cuts the air over the bar, now covered in shards of glass and beer, with his hands. “I’m adding those glasses to your tab.”

Stiles snorts. Derek’s gaze slides over, and Stiles shakes his head. “Sorry, it just reminded me of something funny.”

Now that the moment’s been broken, Stiles steps over to his bag; the distance he puts between them tears at Derek.

“Going somewhere?”

Stiles doesn’t look up. “It’s kinda late and I still need to find a place to crash after I fill up my tank. Or I could grab a pack of Red Bull and try to make it home tonight.”

“No way,” Derek cuts in, “you’ve been drinking.”

“Like, two beers!” But his argument is useless against Derek’s crossed arms and stern expression. “Okay, fine. I still need a place to crash then. Any cheap motels around here? I can’t be spending _all_ of my ill-gotten gains. Right?”

“There’s an apartment attached to the garage I own,” Derek offers. “I use it when I’m in town. You can stay there. Shop’s right across the street from the 24-hour gas station.”

Not the best way to phrase his proposition, Derek realizes. Maybe that’s why he senses Stiles wavering. It’s unfair to the kid because Derek knows he’s interested—Stiles might as well have a neon sign above his head flashing the words _Open for Business_ —but Derek doesn’t know how to make his desire more obvious. Another wolf would be able to sense it.

There’s always clubbing and dragging. Wouldn’t Dean get a kick out of that?

Derek opens his mouth to say something, anything that will change Stiles’ mind, but the kid heads him off.

“Thanks, Derek, but…are you sure it’s cool?”

“It’s just me there.”

“No pack?”

Derek stares down at his knees. “We’ve got a big place a little further north, but we’re not together all the time.”

Stiles’ eyes go soft. “Sorry.”

“We can’t all be in packs of cuddly teenagers,” Derek teases, deflecting. “I wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“You’ve totally got moves, man.” Stiles laughs. “Don’t even try to lie to me. Maybe I can’t read your heartbeat, but I know bullshit when I hear it.” In one fluid motion he swings his bag over his shoulder. “Maybe I can meet you at your place. You know, if that’s still cool? I’ve gotta take care of some stuff first. Gas, obviously, and I’ve gotta check in with my dad to let him know I’m spending one more night on the road. He kinda worries.”

Derek gives Stiles directions from the roadhouse and watches him leave. His wolf is making a low, mournful sound, and he’s partially convinced that he’ll never see the kid again. People tend to form an idea of how Derek should be based on his looks, but their interest fades when reality doesn’t match up to expectations. Maybe Stiles didn’t find what he was looking for. With anyone else Derek would bury the disappointment and move on, but Stiles had called to his wolf in an unprecedented way.

Or, there’s another option he has to consider. Stiles might be okay with the werewolf thing, but as far as having sex with one? That might be a line he’s not prepared to cross.

He’s still standing by the pool table five minutes later when Dean comes around to clear their empties. Dean’s smirking, eyes lit up like fireflies. He looks fucking _gleeful_ , an expression Derek has never, ever seen him wear.

Derek growls. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, “I just never knew you could talk that much.”

“Bite me.”

Dean laughs and waves an empty bottle in his direction. “Save it for the kid, Hale.” As hard as Derek might try, he’s never been able to intimidate the beta; if he gives Dean an opening, the beta will needle him mercilessly. “Speaking of which,” Dean’s saying, “you’d better get going.”

Derek’s ears parse through the bar noise and pick out the sound of an older engine accelerating out of the lot. Stiles must’ve been sitting in his Jeep all this time. Waiting for Derek or talking to his father? Either way, Derek wastes no time throwing a couple of bills on the table for Dean and striding out into the parking lot, the bartender’s laugh following him outside, but there’s no sign of Stiles’ Jeep beyond a cloud of dirt settling back into the gravel.

~~~

Derek doesn’t keep enough at the loft for it to ever get _messy_ , but he fills a trash bag with takeout containers and old magazines and tosses it in the dumpster out back. When he pulled in, he spied the blue Jeep sitting between the gas pumps across the street, but it appeared to be empty.

Maybe Stiles has changed his mind. Maybe he’s inside the convenience store buying carbonated caffeine so he can head home tonight after all. Derek wouldn’t blame him; Stiles has been absent from his pack for too long. From what Derek has been able to sense of Stiles’ spirit, he must be fundamental to the stability of McCall’s pack. Wolves _thrive_ off of pack energy and Stiles is a lithium battery.

Stiles had admitted to Derek that it took a while for McCall’s group to come together. Personalities were constantly clashing, but their bonds were forged through the heat of many trials. Even Stiles and his former high school nemesis had come to realize they were stronger together.

“Jackson’s, like, master of the douche ‘verse,” Stiles had told Derek at the roadhouse, “and getting turned amplified that for a while, if you can believe it. But he’s less of an asshole now that Scott saved his life. We even took out this crazy dude who was trying to brainwash Jackson and make him into a psycho killer, or whatever.”

Derek had enjoyed hearing those stories. It had taken Derek a long time to understand that the pack he’d pieced together for himself needed more than the abilities granted to them through the bite. In turn, Derek needed more than just bodies to wrap around his broken soul. Needed the emotion and support only a true pack could provide. Maybe if he’d had someone like Stiles from the beginning, he wouldn’t have nearly lost his pack.

Too bad Stiles is already taken.

A knock on the back door hauls Derek out of his deep and murky well of self-reflection. Stiles waves when Derek slides the door back.

“Not too late, am I?”

Derek tries to hide the width of his smile as he steps aside to let Stiles pass. Spying Derek’s boots beside the door, Stiles toes off his sneakers, and Derek gets stuck watching his sock-covered toes curl against the floor.

It’s been too long since Derek invited someone back to his converted apartment—the next step eludes him. His wolf whines, threatens to break free and pounce on Stiles before he’s even set his bag on the floor.

But before Derek can decide on a move, Stiles drops his bag and rounds on him.

“I know I was freaking out a little bit when we were at the bar,” he says, words tumbling out so fast, Derek misses a few here and there. “I didn’t want you to think it was because of something you did. Seriously, like, I can’t even believe this is happening to me right now.”

He doesn’t pause or allow Derek to comment. “You know Scott was basically bite-raped by a rogue Alpha, right? Suddenly my best friend could do all this crazy shit, but I was the one who figured out that he’d become a werewolf. And I know it sounds crazy, but I started to get really jealous, because I was so lame compared to Scott. We used to be lame _together_ , and that worked for us, you know?”

“I hit a low while Scott and I were trying to work out who the rogue Alpha was. There was only so much I could do to help—I was the weakest link, you know? I wanted to be popular and good at sports, instead of being the kid who was the butt of every joke—the kid people never remembered. I even…” 

Stiles looks down at the floor and takes a deep breath. Derek almost cuts in because he doesn’t like the stress in Stiles’ voice, but instinct is telling him to remain quiet, because, for some ridiculous reason, Stiles _trusts_ him.

“I snuck out one night and went back into the woods. Back to where Scott said he was attacked, and I—I waited, but…”

Derek doesn’t need to hear any more. His wolf doesn’t _want_ to hear any more. The idea of some cowardly, pack-less Alpha turning Stiles…it makes both sides of him sick. 

Stiles settles himself with another long exhale. “But I’m okay with it now—being human. Really fucking great, actually, now that Scott and I have our pack to share the madness with. Everything’s just so much easier. I mean, obviously I’m the most awesome non-wolf we have, and—”

“Stiles.” Derek’s growl says _get to the point_ ; his wolf is bleeding patience.

“I don’t want the bite. Not anymore. I don’t know if you thought that was part of the reason I came here, but…” Stiles looks directly at him.

Derek knows there’s a question in the silence.

“I’m not going to turn you,” Derek swears as if compelled, but it’s the truth. He’d never even considered the idea. One teenager in the pack is enough. That, and Derek has a feeling that if he hurts Stiles in any way, he’ll have an Alpha battle royale on his hands.

No thanks.

And just like that, Stiles is _Stiles_ again. He flashes a smile, grabs Derek’s hand, and takes himself on a very short tour of Derek’s living space while Derek tries not to seem too amused at the running commentary. 

There’s not much to see. Derek had converted one of the mechanic bays into an on-site apartment three years ago, before he had a pack of his own. Back then, he spent most of his time fixing one busted engine after another while his emotions rusted and froze from disuse. 

With the exception of the bathroom, the apartment is one large room divided only by an island and stools that delineate the ‘kitchen’ space, a leather sofa that’s long been worn down to buttery softness, and a raised section in the corner that holds a queen bed on a metal frame. Derek isn’t ashamed by the simplicity of his accommodations; the space suits him.

Stiles doesn’t see anything wrong with it either. Each time he gets excited—voice pitching higher, gestures that much more fluid—something in the air changes. It feels like bubbles bursting against Derek’s skin, leaving a cool _pop_ where they’ve touched him.

It’s been a while since Derek got laid, but he doesn’t remember it feeling like this. The sensations make him smile.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “That thing you just did with your face. You should do that again. Like, all the time.”

Derek’s entranced by the way Stiles’ tongue plays around his mouth as his expression shifts into something more suggestive, flirting without words until Derek can no longer restrain himself.

When their lips finally brush, Stiles’ lashes sweep down over his cheeks. Derek is tempted to keep his eyes open, see what his kiss does to Stiles, but that proves impossible—Derek needs to close them before he loses himself completely. As if Stiles could rob Derek of his soul with a single glance.

Maybe Derek can steal his through a kiss.

There’s no hesitation from Stiles as Derek deepens the kiss, slides his tongue behind Stiles’ teeth and palms those clever hips he’s been obsessing over all night. They’re the perfect width to pull against his body and rock into. Stiles responds with a happy little sound that pushes buttons Derek didn’t know he had. The confidence Stiles displayed at the roadhouse continues to work in his favor; he tilts his face to the side and it _clicks_. What began as an exploratory kiss evolves into an experience, and if stopping was a possibility, Derek might pause to wonder why this kid has such an effect on him.

Through a waltz of steps and shuffles, unwilling to separate their mouths, their feet have subconsciously carried them to the steps leading up to the raised bedroom. Derek’s heel clips the bottom stair, jarring his lips away from Stiles’ as he regains his balance.

Stiles is grinning. “I’ve never seen a wolf trip over his own feet.”

“Have you ever seen what a wolf does to someone who’s mocking him?” Derek asks, pulling Stiles up the steps.

“Does he pout?”

Derek’s growl is immediately swallowed by Stiles, who leans forward to kiss him again. The bed is right there behind Derek’s knees, but they remain upright, winding themselves into a human knot from their legs up to their tongues.

Control is something Derek is accustomed to having. To appease his wolf, Derek has always tended towards partners who are seeking some degree of submission, instincts guiding them together for mutual satisfaction. But Stiles has the edge tonight. He’s not trying to dominate—no doubt aware how an Alpha would react—but neither is he shy about translating his wants into a language of touch and sound that Derek has no trouble interpreting.

Stiles knows how to soothe Derek’s wolf, transforming him from a wild beast to a tail-wagging mutt happily getting scratched behind the ears. The way his mouth moves against Derek’s strikes a balance between seduction and surrender. He rolls his tongue past Derek’s teeth, dances over the roof of his mouth before pulling back, inviting Derek to stake his claim in return, but only on Stiles’ terms. 

Derek suddenly feels like an acolyte called to worship; Stiles is taking Derek’s needs and reshaping them, peeling away his defenses to expose his true heart.

All of this through a kiss. Maybe it’s instinct; Maybe it’s _Stiles_. Or perhaps Derek is so high on endorphins and arousal that his mind is painting impossible pictures.

They tip over onto the bed. Stiles laughs and rolls on top of Derek’s chest, smirk ever-present as Derek fights with the plaid shirt keeping Stiles’ arms and shoulders a secret. He likes what’s revealed: long arms slightly rounded with lean cords of muscle, more tone on the kid than Derek was expecting. He’s the opposite of disappointed; likes being able to feel the whip-strength in Stiles’ upper body as he pins Derek and skims his lips over his jaw.

“I’m glad you invited me over,” Stiles says.

Derek nips at his chin. “Glad you didn’t impale yourself on a pool cue wielded by a pissed off omega.”

Derek’s hands steal beneath Stiles’ shirt and discover warm skin across his lower back. Stiles shifts into the touch, pulls his teeth along Derek’s scruff before teasing his lips apart. Derek retrieves one hand to hold Stiles’ face, feel his pulse under his thumb. Blindly walk his fingers over the moles scattered between his nose and ear like stepping stones. 

Instead of dragging his mouth away, Stiles catches breath at the same time Derek does. The kiss breaks, but their lips are touching as they share whatever oxygen has been able to squeeze into the narrow gap between their bodies.

Derek could go on like this forever. The wolf snaps at the back of his mind, ready to scent _claim_ **_own_** , but Derek refuses to move away from their kiss. He’s rarely afforded such a luxury. He reassures his wolf that it will get what it wants eventually (so long as Stiles wants it, too), but until then he surrenders to the pure joy of making out.

It’s not until Derek hears blood vessels beginning to pop under his fingers that he realizes they’ve been shedding their clothes. Even their socks are gone, Derek’s toes rubbing along the arch of Stiles’ bare feet. All that remains is their underwear. Derek’s hand is a vise around Stiles’ hip—his very naked hip—and he immediately releases the pressure. He scowls in response to the faint bruising already visible.

“And I thought _I_ had issues with self-control,” Stiles teases, humming as Derek lays the balm of a gentle touch over the marks, apologies given silently to the hollow of his throat. “Seriously, it’s okay,” he whispers as if he’s treating Derek to a secret, “I liked it.”

The whine that escapes Derek is pure wolf. Stiles rolls onto his side, eyes suddenly dark and veiled, holding Derek away with a hand on his shoulder.

“That was kinda weird to say, huh?”

The question snaps Derek’s confusion. Stiles is _worried_.

“I liked hearing it,” he admits and quickly feels Stiles loosen his grip. “I thought I hurt you.”

“I’ve learned that bruises heal. Other things, not so much.” Stiles shivers, but Derek can’t feel a chill. 

Leaving Stiles’ mouth free, Derek moves down the bed as Stiles rolls onto his back. Derek recalls the spark of his earlier fantasy and rakes his teeth gently over Stiles’ collarbone, gathers a pure sample. There’s something warmer that gives the flavor more depth. A nip of spice, too, like raw cacao and chili powder. At his skin, Stiles smells less like his pack and more like…well, Derek’s not sure what Stiles’ base scent is telling him. He’s never come across anything like it.

After a thorough scenting of Stiles’ chest that leaves his nipples hard and his breath heavy, Derek kneels up and lifts Stiles’ arm. Watching Stiles wield his cue earlier, Derek had been fascinated by the play of his skin over long bones and tendons; he’d pictured those dexterous fingers curled around something else that was stiff and smooth.

He presses his thumb into the thin valley between the tendons on the underside of Stiles’ wrist while his tongue traces lifelines across his palm. Derek bites the soft pillow of flesh at the base of Stiles’ thumb, not as gently, wanting to leave his mark. Stiles tenses, makes a fist like he’s unwilling to let go of the sensation, and relaxes again.

Derek’s fingers follow full veins over the back of Stiles’ hand, up his forearm and around the bend of his elbow until they disappear under the musculature of his shoulder. If he could, Derek would follow the blood vessels all the way back to Stiles’ thumping heart.

Stiles’ mouth breaks wide open and he pants as Derek passes close to his lips. His eyes are alight, full of passion, and Derek waits for them to focus.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly desperate to know that this is unfolding the way Stiles wants it to.

“No complaints here.” Stiles combs his fingers through Derek’s hair, scratching over his temple and behind his ear. It’s an affectionate gesture learned from pack, but with Derek, he infuses it with something extra—a leading tug and grip, a silent plea.

“Seriously,” Stiles adds, “we haven’t even gotten to the naughty part, and I’m all…” He shimmies, rubs their cocks together through their underwear. They moan at the same time, Derek’s deep and primal while Stiles’ borders on a shaky keen, holding onto his composure with considerable effort.

With Stiles’ hands on his head as an anchor, Derek sets off down his chest once more, bypassing the skin he’s already roughed up. He goes straight to Stiles’ core, so ripe and beautiful. A runner’s core, lean and yet still vulnerable, muscles quaking as Derek sets his teeth to the shallowly ridged abdominals. His nose musses through the dark meadow of hair below Stiles’ navel, biting and catching a few of the strands just so he can watch Stiles jerk up, gasping. But Stiles keeps kneading Derek’s scalp, encouraging; apparently he’s not opposed to needle-stings of pain to enhance his pleasure.

Derek files that note away along with everything else he’s discovered about Stiles. The knowledge far exceeds what he and Stiles could possibly accomplish in one night, the human side of Derek insists. But his wolf is too preoccupied to consider what the future might hold.

At the gray elastic waistband of Stiles’ boxer-briefs, Derek has to stop. Compelled to pay tribute to the mouthwatering ridge raising the stretchy, crimson material, curving slightly to the right of Stiles’ midline. Stiles flushes under the attention, but instead of folding in on himself, he ups the ante, tilting his knees out to give Derek an unencumbered view.

“You weren’t wearing these at the bar.” Derek swears he’d glimpsed a blue band, not gray, when Stiles bent over for a shot.

“No, I—” The blush spreads to Stiles’ throat. “I changed at the gas station. I thought if this was really gonna happen, I wanted you to see me in something sexier than my Captain America boxers.”

Forget wolfsbane or mistletoe; this kid is going to _kill_ him.

“For the record,” Derek says, bringing his body low to drop the words over Stiles’ shaft, “I would’ve taken you in anything. Or _nothing_ ,” he adds before licking over the fabric.

“Good—ah! Good to know.”

The wolf craves bare skin but Derek is obsessed with the shape Stiles’ dick makes beneath the briefs. He’s been given a gift—doesn’t mean he has to tear through the wrapping. Stiles must expect Derek to finish stripping him, because when Derek’s lips outline the head of Stiles’ cock, his spine arches incredibly high, nearly throwing Derek off as he squeezes his shoulder blades together.

“Fuck!” Stiles curses, chest coming down. “Warn a guy, huh?”

Derek figures the first touch was enough of a warning, so he says nothing before repeating the open-mouthed cock kiss, catching Stiles’ hips and pinning them in place as a precaution.

The briefs soak up Derek’s saliva, wet stain spreading the length of Stiles’ dick. Even through the fabric, Stiles tastes incredible. Derek goes directly to the source, releasing Stiles’ cockhead from its confines and sealing his lips around it. He meticulously searches out and collects every seep of precome, greedy for the flavor. Greedy for _everything_ Stiles is offering, down to the sounds he can’t stop making.

Low grunts as he thrusts his hips up into Derek’s face. Ever more inventive swears hissing through his teeth as Derek licks around the crown, stroking the shaft through Stiles’ underwear. Full on whimpers when Derek refuses to increase the pressure. Stiles looks down, catches Derek smirking and throws his head back onto the pillow.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Stiles groans, softening his words by curling his fingers behind Derek’s ear.

Having mercy, Derek tightens his grip, strokes Stiles with purpose. Ignoring the deep throb of his own dick, Derek slides his other hand up along the inside of Stiles’ thigh, slips under the briefs and strokes sweaty skin where Stiles’ leg meets his body. He assaults Stiles with three different sensations, sucking and pulling and teasing over the muscles of Stiles’ inner thigh. He flicks the underside of Stiles’ balls; Derek can feel the tension in his sac, presses between them and waits for the inevitable reaction.

Stiles shudders and comes with his fingers locked in Derek’s hair, never giving him the chance to pull away. Not that he’s eager to—Derek swallows Stiles’ come and licks around his lips, petting Stiles down from his high.

Derek is kissing along Stiles’ belly when he starts squirming and pulling himself out of Derek’s hold.

“Can’t stand it anymore,” Stiles says, voice cracking from overuse. “Couldn’t concentrate when you were watching me play—wanted to see you naked so bad. But you just stood there and glared, all distracting.”

“I distracted _you_?” Derek remembers it the other way around.

“Yes!” Stiles shouts, impatient and radiant. With a strength Derek wouldn’t be able to manage after such a wringing orgasm, Stiles manhandles Derek up onto his knees and attacks his underwear—black, like nearly every piece of clothing he owns—fingers diving straight down past the elastic. 

Stiles is _frantic_. He strips Derek out of his briefs before tugging on his own, whining as the fabric drags over his sensitive flesh. Derek reaches for his hands and holds them steady, massages between his knuckles until he feels Stiles stop shaking. When Stiles meets his eyes, Derek leans forward and kisses him. Keeps his lips soft and shares the taste of Stiles’ come with him. At the same time, Derek pulls Stiles’ underwear carefully over his dick and past his knees.

Derek leans back. “Better?”

“You know we should’ve been naked, like, _hours_ ago, right?” Stiles complains. He pushes Derek away until his back hits the wall, yanking his legs out straight and straddling his lap in a rush of movement. “You should never wear clothes, Derek. Seriously.”

Stiles lunges in for another kiss, fighting to go deeper like he’ll go insane without leaving a piece of himself at the back of Derek’s throat. Derek bites at Stiles’ lips when they slide across his teeth. It’s rougher than their earlier kisses, yet more intimate. A firm touch can reprimand or demand, but it can also teach, ground, _affirm_. Never before has Derek felt so much in a joining of mouths; he never wants to stop kissing Stiles, but he’s willing to make an exception if his hands continue gallivanting over Derek’s skin like it’s his property.

Stiles’ body is the perfect shape. Derek’s fingers draw furrows in the flesh of Stiles’ ass as his thumbs coast back and forth over the protrusions of his hipbones where the nerves run so close to the surface. Stiles gasps, drags parted lips over to Derek’s ear and begins tonguing the lobe. Spelling out all the filthy things he’s willing to do without saying a word. Derek figured his mouth would keep running all night like an ever-charged battery, but maybe he doesn’t need a verbal outlet when he’s expending energy in other ways.

Every flick and curl feels like it’s being mirrored on Derek’s cock. Stiles nibbles smooth cartilage and Derek seizes.

Stiles leans away. “I’ll have to remember that spot.”

Derek smiles so wide, he must look like an idiot. He arches into Stiles’ hands, flexing his chest. It’s totally worth the rare moment of vanity to see Stiles’ tongue roll out of his mouth.

Something about Stiles continues to keep the wolf at bay. No one should have that kind of effect on Derek’s primal mind, especially not a human. And practically a kid, too—one with remarkable eyes full of wit and knowledge, a quick and ruthless tongue, and a body that cuts Derek to the bone. His skin warms everywhere Stiles touches it, hands moving down Derek’s torso at a fast pace. When they reach Derek’s cock, Stiles looks down and groans.

“Oh holy fuck. Gotta be fucking kidding me.” 

Derek’s not sure what’s so _amazing_ until Stiles slides Derek’s foreskin over the glans, leaving Derek to choke on his breath. 

“So goddamn hot, Derek. I’ve always wondered—always _wanted_ to…”

Obviously, Derek doesn’t find his uncut dick to be all that interesting—he’s lived with it every day for nearly three decades—but if Stiles likes it this much, he’s welcome to have it _whenever_ , and however, he wants. Stiles pumps his hand with gentle pressure, letting Derek’s sweat and generous precome smooth the way. But it’s not enough for Derek, and he blindly fumbles with the drawer in the nightstand until he comes away with a bottle.

Stiles snatches the lube before Derek can open his mouth.

“Yes, gimme that. _Fuck_ ,” Stiles curses, mishandling the bottle as he tries to flip the cap. Derek lends a hand, kissing Stiles until the frenzy tapers into something more focused. 

With slick palms, Stiles double-fists Derek’s cock, hotwiring every nerve in Derek’s body. The repetitive strain brings the elegantly carved musculature of Stiles’ shoulders into sharp relief. Corded strength wrapped in silken skin, cinnamon moles looking sweet and tempting. Stiles is fucking _beautiful_ , and Derek wonders which deity took pity on him and decided that he deserved such an extravagant gift.

Over the last fifteen years, Derek’s been completely dismantled—his body and soul sold for parts—but in Stiles’ embrace, he’s recovered a piece of himself thought lost. Emotions that haven’t burned brighter than a spark are suddenly on fire.

As he’s falling apart, Derek paws through Stiles’ hair, wants to scrape off all that artificial texture so that his wolf can root around in the scents underneath. Stiles is playing Russian roulette with Derek’s dick—one deliberate touch could set him off. He’s found every sensitive spot around the crown, played with Derek’s foreskin and traced every vein along the wide shaft. The rich amber scent of Stiles’ arousal is getting stronger as his cock stiffens again, blood making a U-turn so fast, Derek can hear it rushing.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he pleads, submitting to the pull Stiles has over him.

And Stiles accepts, his eyes glowing with lust and mischief, passion running deep. His right hand is a blur on Derek’s cock, the wet sounds of well-lubed, gliding friction are drowned only by the noises coming out of Derek’s mouth. He can’t stop panting and moaning, which Stiles absolutely approves of given the smirk on his face. He darts forward, licks straight up the side of Derek’s arched neck, and sets his teeth just beneath Derek’s jaw where his jugular vein is throbbing.

The trigger’s been pulled—Derek is _done_. He rides the orgasm as far as it’ll take him, fucking up through Stiles’ fist, unable to slow the roll of his hips until he’s completely spent.

Stiles looks absolutely stunned—honestly, Derek hasn’t come that hard in a long time, and it’s obvious—but delighted, too, meeting Derek’s open lips for another kiss.

Derek’s muscles recover quickly and he bowls Stiles over onto the bed amidst shocked laughter. Stiles grips the sheets leaving trails of Derek’s come all over the place. ( _Good_ , the wolf howls. _Spread our scent around_.) Then he wraps his fingers around Derek’s upper arms, shaping muscles and testing strength with a forceful touch, his cock caught between Derek’s thigh and abdomen. An absolute mess of fluids—Derek’s come, shiny precome from Stiles’ dick, and a mixture of their sweat—create a slick crease for Stiles to rut into, but Derek needs to see _and_ touch.

He kneels between Stiles’ legs, forcing them wide. Fortunately Stiles is lean _and_ ridiculously flexible; he lets Derek arrange his limbs so that he’s spread wantonly in Derek’s lap, cock begging for stimulation. Derek curls down over Stiles’ chest, one hand on his dick stroking fast and deliberate.

Stiles looks absolutely wrecked. Cheeks ruddy, skin around his moles rubbed raw from Derek’s scruff, hair wildly tousled. Red lips pulled between his teeth, chest heaving as Derek tries to give him sweet relief.

“Kiss me,” Stiles demands. “Dammit, can’t believe I already _miss_ your mouth. C’mon, Derek, I—”

He’s there before Stiles can plead any longer, drawing as much warmth from the kiss as he possibly can and memorizing every fold and facet of Stiles’ lips.

Stiles raises his arms, clings to Derek as he starts his slide into orgasm. He tenses, Derek tightens his grip, and everything goes still for a few seconds. And then Stiles’ palm presses over the triskelion on Derek’s back—dead center of the inked swirls—and he comes. A shock runs through Derek, lighting up his spine; at once, it’s the most fantastic and the most terrifying thing he’s ever felt. But Stiles, lost to the white haze, doesn’t notice his strange reaction.

“Bathroom?” Stiles asks, and Derek takes it as a good sign that Stiles can’t remember the stops on his earlier tour. He points towards a door just to the left of the raised bedroom, unabashedly admiring Stiles’ ass as he climbs out of bed.

Derek sacrifices the stained top sheet, wiping his hands before tossing the whole thing to the side. Stiles returns—delightfully, still naked—as he’s unfolding the only other sheet he’s managed to find in the apartment, jumping right back into the space he’d occupied and tangling his legs with Derek’s.

“I feel kinda bad about spilling my guts to you earlier,” Stiles says. “You looked kinda shocked when I wouldn’t shut up.”

“I’m not used to people opening up to me.”

“Something about that gruff exterior and permanent scowl?”

Derek feels obliged to demonstrate the latter. Stiles merely hums and moves closer. “Good thing I’m attracted to the dark and stoic type.” He sighs, looking up at the exposed ceiling. “I’m not really sure what happened, but it was like I could finally let it all go. I didn’t even know I was repressing anything until I met you, and then…” Stiles waves his hand in front of his mouth like he’s spewing something invisible. Derek smothers him before making him swear to _never_ make that motion again.

But he can’t stop thinking about what Stiles said, realizing that the same thing began happening to him from the moment he stepped between Stiles and Fagan. As if the world had suddenly righted itself and things became… _easier_.

Stiles yawns and gets cozy on Derek’s pillow. “So what’s this going to be?” he asks, and Derek doesn’t have a chance to think before his instincts provide a response.

“It’s whatever you want to make it.”

Stiles grins. “Okay.”

Derek doesn’t really think it’s going to be that simple, but apparently Stiles does, and that’s all that matters tonight.

~~~

Derek is unable to sleep. Despite the boundless energy he’d unleashed on Derek, Stiles had finally crashed, victim of a coma brought on by sex and exhaustion. The idea that Stiles feels comfortable enough in his bed to sprawl out and sleep naked causes Derek to smile fondly as he retraces those long limbs with a hooded gaze.

He’s severely tempted to wolf-nap Stiles and deliver him to his betas like a care package (maybe Dean was onto something with his advice). Isaac would love him. Erica would play it cool at first, but Derek can see them teaming up for some epic devilry. Boyd would be _terrified_ of this flailing teenager, but he’d watch and indulge, just like he did with Isaac when Derek first brought him into the pack. 

Stiles would fit; he might even make them _whole_. Maybe he can make Derek whole again.

But Stiles doesn’t belong to him. And the universe successfully proves that when Stiles’ phone begins buzzing as soon as the sun peeks over the horizon. The noise rouses Stiles, and Derek looks on, amused, as he flops one arm over the side of the bed to fish his phone out of his jeans without ever opening his eyes.

Phone in hand, Stiles falls back onto Derek’s favorite pillow and blinks the darkness away. It seems to take him a few seconds to realize where he is, but once he recognizes Derek’s bed, he turns and curls closer, dropping a light kiss onto the nearest piece of bare skin, which happens to be Derek’s bicep.

If Stiles was a werewolf, he’d mock Derek endlessly for the tidal wave of affection that surges through him. Fortunately for Derek, Stiles’ senses are blind to the rush of warmth.

“Lie to me,” Stiles mumbles, tongue not one hundred percent awake yet. “Tell me it’s not morning.”

“It’s whatever time you want it to be.”

Stiles groans; Derek feels the deep sound rumbling in Stiles’ belly where it’s pressed against his hip. He tries to absorb as much of the skin-on-skin as he can, knowing it’s all about to end.

Sure enough, his phone vibrates again. Stiles glances at the screen and sighs.

“Your dad?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “Pack. Probably wondering why I’m not home yet.” 

He’s stingy on words this side of the sunrise, but Derek doesn’t need him to say anything to know what he’s thinking. Derek can hear the calm _thump-woosh_ of his heart—the thought of pack makes Stiles happy, settled. But there’s something beneath the morning tranquility that calls to Derek, tells him that maybe Stiles wouldn’t mind staying away just a little longer.

“They’ve missed you,” Derek says, watching Stiles set the phone behind him. “Pack is stronger when you’re together.” There’s a pang of guilt, then, that he’s not with his own pack, but they function differently. Derek knows that when he goes back, they’ll all feel more balanced.

His reassurances go unacknowledged. Not that Derek cares, because Stiles lifts his arm and slides underneath, pulling it around his shoulder like a boa as his chin rests on Derek’s chest.

“Guess we’re not getting up yet.” 

Derek’s met with a yawn.

This time, he doesn’t fight the pull of sleep. Stiles’ heartbeat is like a metronome, guiding him away from consciousness with a steady rhythm.

~~~

Around nine o’clock, Derek watches Stiles drive away.

Stiles had lingered in Derek’s apartment while Derek made coffee, winding around his body like a feline begging for attention. After sharing the first cup with Derek, Stiles had filled one of Derek’s travel mugs to take on the road.

Standing next to his Jeep, he’d smiled and held the mug up. “If you want it back, you’ll have to come and get it.”

The mug meant nothing to Derek—a free promotion from a local coffee shop. But Stiles, on the other hand…

“I will,” Derek had promised.

And then Stiles was gone.

Derek’s phone is sitting inside on the counter where Stiles had placed it after adding his number (and email, and _Tumblr_ , whatever that is) to Derek’s contacts. And, of course, he’d dialed his own cell from Derek’s to reciprocate the exchange.

There are multiple missed texts. Already there’s one from Stiles—random punctuation meant to mimic an expression—and several from each of his betas.

— _Good job!_

— _Hope he was legal! ;)_

— _Not gonna lie, dude. Feeling all that was beyond awkward._

Fortunately none of them are here to witness Derek’s sudden flush. It’s not like he’s been living like a monk since bringing his pack together, but he’s never felt so strongly about someone that his betas were able to sense his emotions. Derek shouldn’t be embarrassed, especially since he’s had to deal with Erica and Boyd for _months_.

In a way, it thrills Derek that his betas felt a push while he was with Stiles. The connection was real; Stiles means something to him.

Derek fires back a few texts, lets Isaac know he’ll be home tonight after a thorough run-through of the garage’s accounts. And he needs to talk to Dean in order to stay current on the other packs. Needless to say, he’d gotten a little distracted last night. Feeling buoyant and happy, Derek also texts Stiles.

— _Drive safe._

A shower is the next item on Derek’s list. He cranks the water well past warm and lets the steam cloud above his head. Derek stares at himself in the mirror, marvels at the change in his reflection. Maybe Stiles was right; he needs to smile more.

That’s when he sees the marks.

At first he thinks the light’s playing tricks on him. Or that something in the bathroom is casting a shadow, one that wraps around his bicep with a phantom touch. Derek moves; the marks do not.

_Bruises._

Dusky blooms in the shape of long fingers ring Derek’s upper arm. He touches one and shivers, a pulse of pain running the length of his spine. Craning his head around, Derek finds more bruises across the back of his neck and shoulders, around the curve of his hip. 

_Jesus._

He’s dumbstruck. No human has ever, _ever_ left a physical mark on Derek’s body. Raw skin heals in a flash; bruises evaporate. But not these.

Derek stares at his reflection but comes up without answers; he knows those can only come from one person.

“Stiles...what the hell are you?”

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLR](http://hurricanekelleigh.tumblr.com/) | [LIVEJOURNAL](http://kelleigh.livejournal.com)


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